I'm going to do a a story about space.

The Attic
By: Pinpoint Densell

The surface of the planet was not rock or soil or gas, even. They didn't know what it was. As the crew of B.O.A. Boys continued to follow the same path where their little wheel thing that explores planets had gone, they noticed that its tracks would sort of disappear in segments along the ground. The foremost traveler in the bunch had kept going, as the second gentleman out of the seven stopped in his tracks and kneeled down to look at the one of the points where the tracks had stopped.

"It's a completely straight edge! On.. on both sides!" He looked up at the leader of the excursion for a response. The leader gave nothing but a blank stare before turning around to continue.
All of the others did share a small look of confusion but didn't bother to out-rightly respond just because the man up front hadn't said anything. The second man got back up and just continued following the path. At this point, his feelings were kind of hurt, but he just figured it was the change in atmosphere that caused his brain chemistry to give him those emotions. "My job is to follow the path," he thought, "I'll give my opinion later. Simple. Stop, stop, stop".

Lyndon Baines Johnson

At 3:13pm I received a blank text message from an unspecified number.
[draft]
was all it read.  Naturally I thought nothing of it and continued on with my day.  At 6:26pm I received an identical text message.  Unusual, no doubt, but I paid no attention.  Then again at 9:39, but this time I was considerably more curious.  I opened the text's information menu and found that the text was from a three digit number.
313
"What the hell."  I sent a text to 313 simply asking
"what"
I received no response.  At 3:13am I was awakened by a obnoxious buzzing beside my ear.  My phone.  There was another text from an unspecified number.  But this time it was a picture message.  I opened it and was greeted with a photo of Lyndon Johnson.  I had never seen this particular photo of him before, and was intrigued.  Someone I didn't know sent me a picture of LBJ.  I needed to know who was sending me this and why.  I replied with
"why lbj"
Immediately my phone buzzed with another message.  I opened it to find another photo of LBJ, but it was different.  It was a high resolution shot of the back of his head.  I set my phone down and stared at the ceiling.  My breathing was quick and short, but incredibly quiet.  More than anything I wanted to sleep, but because of what I'd seen, that seemed unlikely.
A knock at the door.
I stopped breathing.  My eyes darted around in the darkness.
Another knock, followed by the sound of someone sliding the palm of their hand all the way down the door.  Three knocks, and sliding from top to bottom.  I slipped out of the sheets and hid underneath my bead.  I had no other option.  Loud knocking, and a hand sliding down the door, periodically slapping it.  I was horrified.
Silence soon followed.  My pathetic body was trembling on the ground, not knowing what to do next.  I must have laid there for fifteen minutes, but I did not hear any more knocking or any footsteps.  Outside the door, a deep voice broke the silence.
"I'm going to come in now."
I froze.  It was a southern accent.
The doorknob slowly rotated allowing the door to creak open.  I couldn't see in the darkness, but I could make out the shape of an incredibly tall man as he entered the room.  His footsteps were silent, but his irregular breathing was not.  Fear overtook me, I could not move.  He took three steps and was standing at the foot of my bed.  I thought about making a break for the door.  I hesitated, and felt a massive hand grab my shoulder.  With incredible strength the man pulled me from under the bed and slammed me into my dresser.  I could barely see but he seemed at least two heads taller than me.  His hands grabbed me again and threw me on the ground.  The ungraceful fall knocked the wind out of me, and I struggled to regain my breath.  Slowly he crouched down and squatted beside me.  I looked up and saw something strange.  He was wearing a mask.  It was a cheap plastic mask, the kind a child would wear at Halloween, but it was unlike any I had seen before.  It was of LBJ.
Behind the plastic face his breathing was more uneven than ever, between desperate breaths he spoke to me.  "Do you remember me?"  He stopped to let in a few labored breaths.  "Do you remember me?"
I didn't know what to say.  I didn't know what was going on.  I replied honestly, "N-no."
He placed his right hand over my face and just pushed down.  Lightly at first but then with sudden strength, and he groaned as he did so.  It hurt immensely.  He let up and started speaking again, but his words were muffled by his mask.  His words were strikingly calm.  I noticed a glint of light by the mask's eyehole.  What was it?  He pushed again. 
His pushing was considerably harder, and the pain was unbearable.  I started to gag involuntarily.  I had an animal urge to scream "MOM! HELP ME!" but it was drowned out in the squabble.  He would stop breathing for ten seconds and then abruptly start again.  I was losing my energy in the struggle, and my flailing arms had knocked into the bed's legs several times.  He slowly brought his masked face down in front of mine.  I felt a lone drop of water fall onto my face.  It was a tear.
I noticed it now, he was crying.  He groaned and began to push down on my face again, harder than ever. 

Fingernails

I shuffle my feet and look across the horizon. The wind is so cold it nearly freezes my eyeballs. From my perspective, the water below is indistinguishable from the sky. This observation comforted me for a moment, but then I remembered my duty.
"No more funny business, I die today," I mumbled aloud.
I readied my feet to jump, and pushed off from the ledge. Both hands extended and loose, my body was welcoming the sweet release of death, like a vessel being carried to the other side.
On my way down, I remembered Carrie, and how horribly I had treated her. All of the heated arguments leading to physical abuse were my doing. How I wish I could take it all back. Her beautiful face, distorted by a scowling expression, still haunts me to this day.
I'm halfway down now, and the violent sound of uneasy waters fills my ears.
What was it she said to me that night? Time has muddled the details, but I remember the feeling. I remember the guilt and despair as she walked out my door. I remember her fingernails tearing open my flesh as she lashed out at me in tears. I remember the loneliness encompassing my body like water, surrounding me as I sank deeper.
I'm nearly at the bottom. Will it hurt? Will it even kill me? I pray it won't go as poorly as last time. Those few months ago when I stood alone in my apartment, quivering as I put a noose around my neck. It fit snug around my neck, burning the four slender wounds underneath. To think that I hung there for hours, slowly wriggling out of my poorly devised suicide plan.
Not this time. I'm going to die, leaving all else behind. Goodbye world. Goodbye wasted life, failed suicides, and...
Carrie.
I hit the water hard, linger underwater for a few moments, and eagerly emerge. "That was huge!" squeals my younger brother, brimming with excitement. My large splash impressed him, as it always does.
"Did Carrie see?" I exhale.
"No she ran inside. I think she scraped her knee."
"Is she hurt?"
"I don't know!" replies my brother, clearly annoyed.
She's hurt. But it will be years until it's me who hurts her. Years until she leaves her mark on my neck. It's those fingernails that make me kill myself.

Rock the pool.

fuck this is dumb.

Moons

"How do you think the moons got up there?" Vincent asked me. His tone suggested that he genuinely did not know, and was hoping I could clear up the matter for him.
"No one really knows," I sighed in response, "but considering they get significantly closer every day, the answer shouldn't be too far off."
Vincent chuckled, but not with amusement, I detected fear in his wavering voice.
"Tell me the theories then? Oh pray tell me!" he said as he hopped down from the telescope.
"Pray tell me?" I laughed in confusion.
"I read it in a Mark Twain book."
"Ah, I see you've discovered ole Sam Clemens. I was hoping you'd eventually pull your nose out of those wretched Upton Sinclair books."
Vincent laughed, but glanced nervously out the window. "Are you going to tell me the theories?"
"Of course! But where to start?" I stroked my chin in a contemplative fashion, and reveled in the idea that I even resembled my old friend Twain. I had grown out my mustache in an attempt to resemble the man, but I think the similarity exists only in my head.
"Indeed. I suppose I could start with the Century Egg Theory." I returned to my chair, lit my pipe and began to regale Vincent with the oldest theory I know. "The Century Egg Theory is a seemingly simple matter, but as one begins to look deeper into the concept the true madness is slowly unraveled. I shall give you the most concise account I can muster.
"The origin of the theory is unknown, but my colleagues and I estimate the idea is several hundreds of thousands of years old. The concept is as follows: as long as moons seem to undergo what we consider to be cycles, the curvature of the shadows etched on their hides speaks the language of deadly spacial screams. Fuck you, and I hate you. I will not tell you this theory after all."

When The Mice Attacked

I was screaming. It was all I could do as hundreds of mice assaulted me, biting every square inch of my bare chest. My flesh was torn, but my spirits were high. These mice were going to die before I collapse.
I suppose you'll want some context.
For about eight hours I had been soaking in the local hot spring, rejuvenating my entire body.  Foolishly, I hooked up a payphone beside the spring, thinking that I may need to make a call while I was enjoying the water.  I was wrong of course, but it still took me 45 minutes to hook the damn thing up.  So yeah, I was pissed.  I needed to relax.
Anyway, I was just taking it easy but I couldn't shake the feeling that I had forgotten something really important.

The Night the World Exploded

The night I proposed to Clara was the spookiest night of my entire life.
I had just returned home from prison that morning, and by lunchtime I decided to ask my woman for her hand in marriage. On my way to buy the ring I decided to snag a quick bite at Applebee's. As I stepped foot inside the establishment I could feel my bones chime as if some sort of deep resonance rang out from the soul of the restaurant. Something was wrong. My body began to quake and my trembling hands couldn't hold a firm grip on anything around me. I collapsed onto the sticky carpet. With a hoarse voice I just managed to whisper...
"Need... french fries..."
Twenty minutes later I was seated at a table munching a wholesome meal. I grinned wide as I shoved another fully loaded baked potato in my mouth. My waiter was so disgusted by my ravenous hunger that he promptly called the police.  I was blissfully unaware of this as I ordered three more ripe farm raised tomatoes.
The authorities soon arrived at the restaurant weighed down with countless guns and blades ready to kill me if they had to.  I was just finishing my third helping of seasoned cinnamon shrimp scampi when the police chief calmly approached me, joyfully asked "How are you doing today?" and pointed a gun directly to my temple.  I reluctantly dropped my fork, and swallowed a mouthful of deliciously fresh butterscotch apple roasted veal.
I whispered "Please don't kill me," and the police chief assured me wasn't planning on it, assuming I cooperate.  I agreed.  I was immediately cuffed and escorted from my chair.  As gained my footing, I asked "Why are you arresting me?  Is it because I ordered too many honey-roasted salmon wraps?"  The police chief guffawed, which unnerved me.  He continued laughing, and apparently one of the police snipers three blocks away panicked and began shooting at me, narrowly missing my head but destroying the beer-battered aged wheat-berry toast I was planning on eating in the cop car.
"YOU SON OF A BITCH!" was the last thing I screamed before one of the armored deputies beat me unconscious.  I was out for a long time.
I remember... floating... in the abyss that was my inner consciousness.  I remember the freedom, the joy, and the inexplicable hunger for baked rigatoni with pesto sauce.
Suddenly I was jolted awake.  By what I did not yet know, but I was immediately aware that something was not quite right.  I felt cold, and I was alone.
But not ENTIRELY alone, for I felt as if I heard someone laughing in the distance.  A laugh that was eerily similar to the police chief's.  I wanted to stand up to pursue the disembodied laughter, but I soon discovered that I was tied to a chair.  I had a knife though, so it was really no trouble.  I was free in an alarmingly short amount of time.  Quicker than it takes to drink a Dixie cup full of orange juice.  More importantly though, I was free to investigate the weird sound.
It was very dark, there was a single light in the massive room but it wasn't particularly bright and I could only just barely see what was in front of me.  I followed the laughter and it lead me to an old wooden door with a grimy window in it.  I wiped my hand across the filthy glass and peered inside.  I could only hardly tell what I was looking at, but it appeared to a long hallway light by three flickering light bulbs.  I stepped back from the door.  "Where the hell am I?"

The Fez

I was surrounded by small mountains of gold coins.  They felt amazing under my bare feet.
fuck i hate myself

Synchronightmare Pt. 2

January 8th, 200* - 11:47 PM

[Chen sits cross-legged on his bed with his pistol in pieces, laying out in front of him. He picks them up one at a time and strokes them lovingly with an oil cloth]

Chen: [Muttering to himself] I don't believe this... To think.. ha.. And I hadn't spoken to her in three months. The bastard...

[He begins to assemble the pieces with his eyes closed, still muttering]

Chen: If it's not one thing it's a damn 'nother. Be it trash, dirty laundry on the floor, or good old fashioned noise pollution. It's got Joey's name written all over it. If I had stayed in China when I was born... who knows. Life would probably be bearable. Instead.. [Coughs] I'm at this low-rung university, living with an unconcerned neanderthal. Maybe if I just got a little bit of peace and quiet so I could practice my violin.. Just five damn minutes a day.. but no. Joey's watching football. Joey's whacking it in the bathroom. For crying out loud, who does he think he is. He's not even really studying anything right now... As a matter of fact, I don't even think he goes to class. Shit.

[Chen stands up and walks into the bathroom, coming to a stop in front of the sink mirror. He aims the gun at his reflection and raises an eyebrow]

Chen: The name's XingXao--

[He hears the door open and quickly shoves the pistol in the waistband of his shorts. Joey walks in and drops a duffel bag on his bed.]

The Wolfman

"It's 2010 for fuck's sake. I don't believe in fairy tales, religions, or any other superstitious lies. You expect me to believe you've fought the Wolfman?"
The professor turned around and faced the cynic. He looked into his eyes from across the table, and a sly grin slowly crept onto his face. He slammed both hands onto the grand table and shouted with such vigor the entire room trembled.
"Of course I've fought the Wolfman!  Do you think I'm a madman?  Wolfmen are real and they run rampant fuck cufkcc cunt ass tent

The Secret Evil

Whatever happens to the first person to discover that something seemingly innocent is actually evil? Well, if entertainment has taught us anything, we know that this person's a goner. But, what if we all already know? Naturally, there's strength in numbers, but then again, it depends on how truly evil this evil actually is. Sure enough, in Sal Wilkerson's case, this is exactly what went on in his hometown. He had returned home to Delsh Falls for Christmas and everything was just fine, then. This is where the story begins, though. Growing up in a place like Delsh County, you kind of automatically end up hearing about evil. You end up knowing that evil exists. It becomes routine. The thing is, you end up realizing that the truest of evil does not come in the form of hate crimes and natural freak accidents and stuff, but in the smaller things. You ought to know where I'm going with this. Still, Sallion and other kids from there just hear about evil from the stories. Like, not only stories handed down from family and other elders, but stories on the local news and signposts and personal experience. The town landmark is the evil thing. It's a large statue of the county's founding father, IdIdIdIdIdIdiD Delsh. All it is is a seemingly regular statue, but the only thing regular about it is the fact that it regularly haunts young boys and casts its images into every mirror within the limits of the county on stormy nights. Simply put, it's a non-frightening evil, except for one thing. On the stone block that holds the statue upright is a plaque with the following notation:
I'm working for an hourly wage
I went to high school, didn't do great
still I gotta make more cash
more education is what I'm looking at
when I get a degree
I will make a bigger salary
so now I've got to see
which college is right for me
I went on the Internet
and found Education
Con-nec-tion
I took some free tests
to find out my direction
I'm taking my classes online
getting my degree on my own time
Education Connection matched me
with the right college for free
Get connected for free (free)
with Education Connection
Get connected for free (free)
with Education Connection What does this freakin mean?? Lol

Things were going well for the young Saint. One month living in his new beach house, he

Allen's Monster (Or "Alien's Monster" if you warm limeaded)

"Promise me you'll stay hidden in here, Grover." "I promise," the creature replied. "Good," exhaled Allen, "So I can finally go out in public." Allen stood up, stumbled from the unforeseen dizziness, and shambled through the door into the blinding light outside. His silhouette faded away into the piercing white. "Terrific," the monster snarled, "now I'm left to wonder. Left to wonder without a damn thing to eat." Hours passed and Allen had not yet returned. The creature's beady eyes drooped like wilting flowers, exhausted from the lack of sleep. Contrary to what Allen believed, the monster was quite loyal, and rarely considered abandoning the entire effort. He jolted upright and blurted "No! I need to be awake when he gets back!" But the room remained vacant of human life. The sun was beginning to set now, and Grover was trembling with fear. Astoundingly, he had never been left alone for so long, but the feeling was familiar. The cold air, the gaping loneliness, somehow this experience wasn't new. Suddenly he reach a revelation. "How long have I been alive?" he wondered aloud. His words retreated to every corner of the room and faded away unanswered. His mouth remained agape, as if expecting a voice to answer his query, but no such interjection occurred. But hearing the question aloud got his mind stirring. How long has he existed?

The Night of Goo

We all gathered in Miguel's basement, anxiously awaiting the grand unveiling of his "surprise." There were 9 of us, but the group was led by Miguel, Iglesias, Tony, and myself. Tony is the quiet one. To help you remember, say this aloud: "Tony is the quiet one." Got it? Good. Anyway, everyone shuffled down the basement stairs and began gathering in a small circle. The basement was cramped, and such a large group was less than ideal. I suggested we go upstairs for the surprise, but Miguel simply whispered in my ear "We need the darkness. More importantly, HE needs the darkness." That sentence horrified me, but I quickly lost interest when I saw a Chewy bar resting on a stool in the corner. I was in luck! I grabbed my snack and found a seat in the circle right next to Iglesias. "This better be good," he said in a nervous voice. "Miguel's been acting a touch odd these past few weeks, and I'm concerned that it may be related to that weird book he's been reading." "Yeah," I said with a mouthful of granola, "It's a creepy looking black book. He seems to have his nose in it every time I look at him." "Hmm probably," Iglesias responded, clearly distracted. "Hey where'd you get that Chewy bar?" he asked impatiently. "I found it I guess. It's pretty good." "Can I have like a pinch or something?" "Nah, I didn't really eat lunch." I said without looking at him in the eye. "Oh, ok," he sighed sheepishly, "Is it peanut butter?" "Yeh," I said sharply. At this time, Miguel stood up and requested everyone's attention. "People!" he yelled at a piercing pitch. Too loud for such a small basement. "As I'm sure you know, I've called you here tonight to show you something..... special." Everyone began murmuring and asking questions. "What does that mean?" "Special? What is this?" "Where did he get that Chewy bar?" "In due time," Miguel continued, "you will have all of your questions answered. But first we must.... cross the barrier." Miguel froze, his eyes locked onto mine. Neither of us moved for several seconds, trembling, awaiting the other's next move. He broke the silence with a warm chuckle, and continued in his speech. "Does anyone here believe in... spirits?" No one raised their hand. "Fair enough," he said licking his lips. "But does anyone believe in life after death?" This question aroused a few hands. Everyone looked confused, as if their slightly Hispanic friend was no longer the one they recognized. "What are you getting at?" Iglesias demanded. Miguel quickly turned around. His eyes were nearly bulging out of his head with surprise. His lips were pooched out in a curious fashion. "You know," Miguel said nearly in a whisper, "If you were quiet like Tony perhaps you would learn something." Iglesias glanced over at Tony's expressionless face. Iglesias nervously swallowed. "As I mentioned earlier," Miguel continued, now addressing the entire group, "some of you believe in the afterlife, so therefore you believe in Hell." The word "Hell" echoed in the stuffy basement. "Tonight, I want to give you a taste of the afterlife by welcoming someone from the other side." Everyone gasped. "A demon." Miguel threw his hands up and began chanting in a dead tongue. His eyes rolled back in his head and his voice sounded like a reversed scream. The ground shook as he flailed his arms in every conceivable direction, and everyone in the room began screaming at the top of their lungs. His mouth was moving at an unfathomable speed, spouting demonic chants and disembodied screams. I thought about running and escaping this horror, but my body was frozen to the ground. I looked into his eyes, and I saw the gates of Hell. Suddenly all was quiet. Every light in the room was snuffed out the instant Miguel's screams abruptly stopped. After a few seconds my eyes were drawn to the slowly growing green mass in the center of the room. It was goo, green glowing goo. Everyone stared in disbelief. I looked around to see everyone's ghastly expression, but Miguel was nowhere to be seen. The goo was rising at an increasing pace, and we all shuffled away from the disgusting slimy substance. Someone had the gall to make the joke, "What is this? Slime Time Live?" The absolute lack of laughter was far more disturbing than the creeping pile of green snot. I admit, after watching that goo wiggle around for three minutes got a bit boring. I actually started to yawn, but as my mouth opened to release my rank breath, I noticed something. The goo... it was starting to take shape! A man was arising from the slime! A rather gooey man!

   There's a story here. A pretty grand yarn, that I happened to have lived through. Seriously, this isn't a little campfire fright for you to listen to while you vomit s'mores, and I promise, it's not made up. It happened three hours ago, during the drive here.
   This morning, I got up and checked my text messages. Of course, you know I was planning on coming here tonight, so that's what I was looking for. Didn't have anything from you guys, but there were a lot from an unrecognized number. The curious man I am, I helped myself to them (hoping maybe a girl from my high school days was wondering about a little moonlight rendezvous with a bottle of decadent wine from a respectable year).
   Obviously, that didn't happen. Otherwise, I'd be balls deep in a cheap motel on the lower east end of Sermico county, instead of reminiscing the most gruesome time of my life with you fine gentlemen. It's not that I don't love you guys but come on... Trim is trim.
   Right, the texts.. There were upwards of twenty waiting in my inbox, all from the same number. Each one was a little, obscure question, almost to the point of being timid. Things like: "do u... like pasta?" and "wuts yor favorite... color?" Yeah, it even had those weird pauses, as if the person that sent them was taking dry gulps while typing, and felt the need to exhibit his thirstiness. Here, take a look...
   I texted him back with a brief threat. Something along the lines of "I'll remove your scrote-bag", but that's speculation at this point. I had to delete a few messages because my phone's memory was full.
   On the road, there was hardly a car to be seen. That's why I hate highways, man. Sometimes, shit is ghostly and abandoned, and all you've got are a couple of christian rock stations and a Brian DiCamillo bobblehead on your dash to keep you company. "Wait, they don't make th-" Shut the fuck up.
  

Yo'll find this very distrbing. What once was an innocent teenager now became to be an agnostic. He and his fruitful acts nowturned his past into an insibvious draught. He no longer helped out at he camp to which he worked and he never helped the elderly. What were we to do. How can we, citizens of Winnwood, protect our children from outlandish acts such as these? These, these "Cool Winning Men"? These dastardly usurbvous diwits are doing it again! There shelters us from another wave of dimensia! Into a uhh, Wolfmother sense of stability! What cn be done? Our sons of Artcasts. Whatcan be done? our slavish met=.. Ok, Qh QHar AIccuyred Was now accauires. you fol.

203

"This upcoming Tuesday is 50 years. Jesus, if only they knew. I think it's about time Thomas says goodnight." The warden was a miserable little man, short in stature and cruel in disposition. His job was the only possible exaltation he would receive in his entire life, which was getting dangerously close to its end. "Get a priest, or something," he muttered toward the sergeant while pacing in little circles about his poorly decorated office. "This sucker needs to die." 203 As usual, the sun rose in the yellowish sky, causing Thomas to breathe an obscene remark. "This damn world was never ready for me," he said in a low tone, "but I've still got time." He had an annoying habit of speaking to himself, which lead to people assuming he was insane. For all intents and purposes, he might as well have been. It was 1953, and the world was less than forgiving toward prison inmates. People saw all prisoners as cold, heartless criminals who deserved nothing less than death. Thomas was different, or so he thought. He was convinced he had a destined appointment for greatness. 3:00 lethargically came with shots & medications, lulling Thomas into his daily nap. Every minute of sleep was an escape for Thomas, allowing him to burst free of the shackles that choked his spirit. Sleep was the closest thing he had to a home. Fifty years can change a man. "Fifty years," Thomas reluctantly admitted to Carl Fisher, the murderer in the neighboring cell. "Can you believe it's been that long?" Carl showed no signs of movement. Instead of responding to the question, he shuddered and said, "I saw a bird today."

 Thomas spared him a lingering glance. Then he turned to his cell window, a barred little number with faint scratches reproducing the image of a dying tree. It was the Yamp Tree, to which Thomas availed himself of a visit at least once a day. The window was freedom, and became lucky when frosted over. Couldn't tell you why. Now, as he grimaced through the distorting layer of glass out onto the brittle yard, he was able to make out the tennis court by the treeline. Some sort of roundish yellow object was lying there on his side of the net. He wasn't so mentally ill that he did not recognize a tennis ball when he saw one. Which is why he was so terribly frightened by its sudden breathing. It was not long before the "ball" began to spring across the dull grass toward the hull of the ward block which housed Thomas, Carl, and, on a fluctuating basis, no more than twelve other "residents." 

 Being of tepid constitution, Thomas staggered back from the window and fell face-forward into his creacking cot. With all his might, he closed his eyes and entered the darkness of his head. This actually became a peacefully prone attitude. There was little ambient noise on the ward, with most of his neighbors tranq'd out of their gourds and the guards on holiday. Five minutes passed, and Thomas had fully forgotten about the apparition beyond the window. But then Carl said,

 "There's that bird again. He's been waiting for a chance to approach the air duct since the sun rose this morning."

Potential

Scourge.

Aren't you glad you're back in the picture?

You were always one of the best people to see, around here.

Nope, not one person like you has shown up since you left.

You were really, really one of a kind.

I think you know it.

Look at you, smilin' all pretty.

You always were really pretty.

You know I'm just foolin'.

Still pretty, though.

You should probably die, tonight.

I know you feel good to be back, girl.

This place needs a woman like you.

Pretty little smile to keep the town going.

Beautiful, big eyes to keep the footballers working hard during practice.

Making those Marshall boys practice their guitars every night.

Causing all the Baker boys to study hard all afternoon.

For no reason, if I'm not mistaken.

You're spoken for, aren't ya?

Don't worry, I'm not bein' slick.

No matter what you answered, I was gonna say the same thing.

You belong to the open roads, am I right?

Yeah, you definitely gotta die, tonight.

You comin' to the picnic, tomorrow?

Yeah, I bet you are.

Everybody is gonna be lookin' for ya, anyhow.

Come, dressed how you are now!

An' I hope you go to Hell

Look at you!

I still can't believe it.

It's amazing how the real world can change a girl like you.

You've done well for yourself, I'm sure.

Everyone's gonna be soo happy to se-

What in the world?

Where am I?

Who are ya?

You're.. you're..

What happened to you?

Why are you..?

Why is this in my hand?

Why is it soo dark in he--

Time to die.

Hyphen

Now, I kind of wish I had waited until later to mention the exorcism. Already, the crowd is on edge, looking to me for an explanation. O God, I've gone and embarrassed myself. How would I continue to tell them that their dear mayor has recently been exorcised? Looking at their stares and open mouths, all I can think to do is smile. I almost laughed, a bit. Naturally, I had to put on the front of a complete gentleman at this point. This crowd, the people gawking at me in this gala, actually ended up being the several circles of Hell. I couldn't let that bother me. There had actually been evil in their little town! I straightened my tie, flattened my hair, and scooted up to the microphone. "He's fine, now. For all we know, he just had a head cold". Blasphemy, though. He was one-hundred percent possessed. I just could not tell these townsfolk what had really gone on. A few days earlier, I came to this town with nothing but a briefcase full of tropical-colored shirts and packages of gluten-free egg noodles. True Hell-beasts really go for the gluten-free stuff.. not that I exclusively know anything about the beasts of Hell or anything. I was actually here because there was a convention in the actual metro area, and I was using my cousin's house to sleep at night. The curator had sent out a message that asked specifically for these noodles, and the shirts were just gifts from my mom before the trip. Any other clothes I had planned on wearing

Pretending To Scream

"You may be the most beautiful woman I have ever know.. but by God, what is that

Bored To Death: The HBO Faux-tective Series/Score:1

What crime could be more heinous that the other? What man could mistake you for another? Johnny-Man: The Devil-Rival On The Sweet Streets. Johnny-Man lives among us. His names rhyme with all the wind. His challenges exist near and far. He is a Winter-Born Man.
[Testimony from a Mama NaDine Toothpick'z- named after Anthony Wiggle-waggle's only Cartoon-themed seafood shack.] Mama Nadine "Toothpicks" of Greffen, Georgia circa 1789 He was always there for me. I believed he did birthed a child of mine at the time, but it was only what he'd call: "A Bogus Journey." Banny, er as he was once called, Banny would Be on the lookout for us. We were quite sure he was a murderer, but back then, a foolish me decided "You don't know the ugly truth! Come on, you don't know the guy"... ahem, I didn't know any languages, back then, so I was still petite. The first time any of us had spoken to him, he had already been passed on for the past 70 minutes or so, so we actually ignored him at risk of being accused of murder. When we had come back around, 2 hours later or so, he was actually ripe and freshly stained with blood which didn't help the sisters I was with believe that he wasn't so distant from all the Charlie Deckers in the world. We felt the sudden need to, jimmorisean in order to get past this orphaned man. My sister, Delilah-Belle, took out her teedlywink, and begun to type one mean dialogue with a young Doctor Amorphous. My medium sister Doctor Stella O'Baskerville, began to dribble a mean rock down the court past that nigga's head. I on the far-other hand, simply dropped my current mood and shouted him down from whichever rope he was stress-proofing. "What seems to be the malady, you crock bitch?" he said, and I turned to him and retorted "I beg yourn pardon?" "You summoned me, so I am the devil. So what's it going to be? 3 wishes or 3 punishments. . .for eternities. Yourn call." The gay bastard. As you can imagine, me and that fellow made great love that very night. He was actually on his "beach vacation" setting so, the sex was actually very relaxing in the long run. As you can imagine, he was half Jordanian and half Cleveland. Little did I know, Sister Lah-Belle, still on her teedee, accidentally jimmoriseaned our hero to a shallow-grave. One of the notes that Lah-Belle sent Doctor Amorphus was a complete mistake. She had actually typed what she was truly thinking, and it was not meant to reach the doctor. A message of Banny's uncertain outlook. ===============================================================

Original Documentation, th [court transcripts from the testimony of Orvilla Cain Rupture. And he's the narrator, basically.]

Now, to understand our doctor in this story, you'd have to have open your mind to walks of life. Naturally. A complete soft-sack by the age of twelve, Doctor Amelius Amorphus Rogers, was an absolute weird man. =============================================================

Relentless Documentation, op [the story is 3rd person limited, now]

The old Woolwarre home was a 2x4 plywood outhouse. They hated every moment of life. None of the sons had girlfriends, and none of the Woolwarre girls would study hard enough! So they reproduced fairly quickly, the parents, in order have children to spare due to inevitable self-mutilation. Non-offensive subliminally, paved the rest of this sentence. The walkways to the town from the small home was actually painted each day by this

From My Grandfather's Deathbed: Part 1

2004 burned itself into my memory with . It was the year my grandfather passed away, as well as the year I lost all hope in humanity. Henry Marshall, my then 87 year old grandfather, shared stories of his life as I sat by his bedside. Throughout my entire life I assumed my grandfather was a perfectly normal man, but the 3 days I spent with him before his death changed my entire perspective. On Tuesday, September 14th he shared this story with me. "I didn't believe in much those days, your father was just a little boy and I was trying to live a normal life after what had happened to your grandmother, God rest her soul. Jacob Peters, a new friend at the time was working with me. I worked at the firm back in those days, you know. Me and Jacob always went for a drink after work and have a good time. Sometimes I'd go over to his house for dinner, his family was always so nice. It's a shame. God, I hate even thinking about it. The bastard. Well, there was a period where nobody'd seen Jacob for a week or so, wasn't picking up the phone, I never saw him around, you know? Well I go over to Jacob's house to see what the hell is going on and that's when I was struck with that... that unexplainable fear. The door was cracked. I hesitated for a moment, sensing that something was wrong. I called his name but didn't get an answer, so I entered the house. I shouldn't have done that. Yet he was willing and forthcoming, but he could not stop moving! I screamed at him, 'You absolutely have to stop moving!' but he kept on singing that same damn melody. I found nothing familiar in his eyes, only fragments of the friend I once had. But the noise he was making afterward, shit, that made my hair stand on end. It reminded me of Popeye’s voice but slowed down at an impossible pitch. His voice would progress to a certain pitch and immediately decrease to where it was before. His entire body would sway like a top in a robotic motion. It truly disturbed me, and it is not something I will easily forget." not finished you ass.

The Forest: Part 1

Fast and ever approaching, the gentlemen rode. A thin arm wiped sweat from his painted face, and the only thing I could think of was the whistle. The tallest of the two dismounted first and looked my pregnant sister right in the eyes. She stumbled backwards somewhat, and the man burst into rusty laughter. I held my sister and reassured her with a soft whisper. I glared over at the man, and his faced seemed very odd in that moment. Flaking brown paint glistened in the midday sun, and I inquired why he would bother to decorate his face in this manner. His dark eyes snapped back at me and a demented smile formed in the corner of his mouth. The clouds drifted along in the sky. Two words were uttered, "Wake up." According to the words of wise men, the statue of a sleeping giant rests at the furthest point of the woods that overlook the edge of the world. In my thousand year existence, I have never seen such a thing. From a distance, the most I can make of this legend is that there are, in fact, no wise men. No such thing. On the contrary, I must tell you that wisdom, in whatever form, does exist, but no man contains it. Well, at least not anymore. I finished speaking with the trees seconds before the sun crept away so the moon could explore the empty night sky. I disappeared into the darkness and hoped for a chance to experiment with my new found sense of enlightenment. My fingers burned with electricity, and my eyes were sporadic with madness. The trees seemed even more stagnant as I raced past them and aroused their branches out of an eternal dormancy. The only sound for miles was my clumsy laughter. I nearly flipped the entire world upside down as I ran that night. The night came to life as my speed awoke each sleeping tree and encouraged the green out of the frozen ground.